Chapter 17
Let’s start by saying: Nash was up anyway.
My little flash of terror moment jolted him awake. He wasn’t planning to fall back asleep anytime soon.
Which was perfect for letting me try out my idea.
I’m not going to say I forced Nash into the bathroom to take a shower while I prepped, but he was forbidden to come out of there until I got everything
set up.
Turns out, having a slew of personal staff available on a gold-star ship can come in handy at midnight in a pinch.
One call to the front office, with only half a ring before they answered, and five minutes later three staff members were
lined up at my door, each with arms laden.
I took the silver platters.
And the armful of candles.
And the rolling three-tier carts.
Nobody asked questions. Nobody showed any expression on their face.
I have no idea what other people do or ask for on this ship at midnight, but it was plain as day that they have seen weirder.
Now, as Nash emerges, hatless with hair dewy and fresh flannel, I’m waiting.
His brows pinch together.
He looks around the room, puzzled.
“Oookay. What am I looking at?”
I wave my arms toward the drawn curtains.
I’m grinning despite myself.
I’m bad at surprises, or at least I’ve been told by Michael that I’m bad at surprises.
Shake it off, Pip. You did good.
“Follow me.” I draw the curtains open.
The small balcony overlooks the orb of the full moon.
It glows brightly in the distance.
Stars twinkle.
A white latticework bistro table rests there with two petite chairs on either side.
Two black-and-white-striped cushions sit on the seats, while bundles of glowing votive candles light up the balcony.
They are flickering on the ground; flickering on the table; flickering in every little corner I could possibly and without
threat of serious fire arrange them.
A covered silver platter sits at one seat.
A laptop at the other.
The whole landscape consists of two colors: brilliant white and a deep, inky black.
It’s terrifying, quite frankly, and under no circumstance but this one would I be caught dead walking onto a balcony over
the ocean in the dead of night.
But . . . the landscape is also beautiful.
The light and dark enriching the other.
Spotlighting the other.
Showing off each other’s beauty, each other’s strengths.
Like Nash and me, maybe.
I hope.
“I read the last chapters of your work in progress while you were in the shower,” I say, carefully (and I mean carefully) tiptoeing onto the balcony and sitting down.
I open the laptop. “You had sent me up to chapter 22 before the cruise. Now I’m up-to-date. Chapter 26. And I see what you
mean about being stuck. I’ve made some notes.”
I gesture for him to sit.
“What?”
Nash looks dazed, but he follows.
When he does, I lift the top from the platter.
Steam blows up in his face as he looks down at the little feast.
I can see immediately from his reaction that it was a good call.
“You missed dinner to watch me sleep, so . . .”
“This is great.” He says it like I slaved away for hours.
“I mean . . . let’s be honest. I only made a call—”
“You mixed the dressings,” he murmurs, looking at the two tiny silver cups beside the salad, which for the record is sitting
beside the biggest steak I maybe have ever seen (when you say you want a steak as big as a stop sign . . . they really follow through).
I shrug. “I know you like the blue cheese and the honey mustard mixed, so. There you go.”
“Aren’t you going to eat?”
I wave him off. “My stomach’s too upset. It’ll settle down by breakfast. So here’s what I’m thinking . . . I have a part two
for my thank-you-for-sticking-with-me-while-I’m-down-and-out plan.”
“You don’t need to thank me for being with you, Pip.”
But I shush him, and for the next twenty minutes I go over my notes.
And the hour after that, we brainstorm.
After my third yawn, Nash stops me. Puts a hand over mine as I’m in mid-type.
“Pip, I think we’ve done enough for one night. This is amazing. But it’s probably time we called it a night.”
“This is what I have to offer you, Nash. You’ve said it yourself. It’s not much, it’s just my brain, but here it is. It’s the least
I can do for all you’ve done for me.”
He frowns. “What have I done for you? Nothing.”
“Not true. You’re here,” I say, “insisting on keeping me safe.”
He tilts his head. “Not exactly a sacrifice, Pip.”
“On the floor,” I add. “Which, by the way, the staff saw and freaked out and apologized a hundred times as though they were responsible
and brought in a cot.”
I point over to a little folded-up cot in the corner. “They were very upset.”
He shakes his head. “Again. All that is just being with you. Not a sacrifice. The opposite of a sacrifice.”
“And you . . . helped me when I had a migraine. You gave me medicine.”
Nash’s face is starting to look a little disbelieving. “You do realize these are things average people do for one another.
Total strangers, in fact.”
“And you . . .” I venture, fishing in my brain. “You just . . . you’re you, okay? Just let me do something nice in return
and get over it. I can’t take you looking out for me without doing something in return, and seeing as how I can’t exactly look over your life with incredible strength and the ability to knock down a door with my bare hands—”
“Do you think I do that? Just go around knocking down doors with my bare hands?”
I shrug. “I mean. That’s what you were doing on that lady’s T-shirt today, so dare I question it? If it’s on a T-shirt?
“The point is,” I continue, “this is what I’ve got. This is all I can contribute. So let me contribute it.”
The unspoken words sit there.
The reality as I tell him: I fear you are superior to me in every way, and I need to feel a little less like that right now. Please.
Nash shakes his head.
It’s clear he doesn’t agree with me. It’s clear he doesn’t agree with my methods or madness. But he gives in.
“Alright, Pip,” he says in a low murmur. “Solve my book for me. Finish up this puzzle and I’ll be forever in your gratitude.”
“Thank you,” I say a little sarcastically (but totally not sarcastically) and look back to the computer.
It takes two more hours to get there.
We brainstorm long enough to a eureka moment, at which point Nash takes over the computer.
Meanwhile, with phase one of “help Nash finish his book” complete, I move on to phase two.
I order refreshments to the room (I honestly don’t know how I’m going to go back to normal society after this) and have begun
to imagine a man on the other line in coattails and a peacock bow tie crying out the second we hang up and a flurry of people
in coattails and peacock bow ties sprinting down the halls, when there’s that polite knock on the door.
I’ve hardly had time to set the phone back on the receiver.
It’s incredible.
With a glance back to Nash—who truly does look quite contented surrounded by the flickering candles, typing on his laptop with zeroed-in focus—I look through the peephole, see the bow tie,
and open the door.
“Hello,” I say.
“Your dessert, ma’am.”
I take it from him, squinting as I look for some sign that would give him away.
A pulse bouncing at his neck.
Sweat building up at his temple.
Anything.
“Anything else, ma’am?” he says politely, like it’s not two in the morning but a sensible hour in the middle of the day.
“No, that’s all for now. Thanks . . . again,” I say and hand him a bit of cash (which in itself is stressful—you feel like
an idiot handing over an old wadded-up ten-dollar bill when it seems pretty clear fresh-off-the-mint hundred-dollar bills
are the only acceptable form of payment).
He gives a sincere little bow and slips the bill somewhere out of sight on his body.
I’m still almost certain he will disinfect the bill the second he gets to some back room. There’s probably a whole bin dedicated
to disinfecting crumpled less-than-one-hundred-dollar bills.
I move to shut the door with my two plates of cheesecake in hand, but upon second thought open it again and look out.
Perhaps I will catch him sprinting down the hallway now, off to another errand.
He’s stepping lightly but is no speeding bullet.
I watch in silence for him to suddenly leap like a deer or something, but he just glides through the locked door for the wing
and over to the elevator doors. Presses the button. Waits in silence.
How deflating.
The elevator dings, and as the doors slide open and he slips in, I hear a latch turn to my left. My head turns without really thinking, and a moment later I suck in my breath and duck my head back in.
At two in the morning, there is Crystal, alone.
Walking out her door.
Her face says it all.
This is a woman who couldn’t care less that a man was murdered.
Ten seconds later, she comes into view. Strides past without stopping.
What is Crystal doing going out, alone, at two in the morning?
And who, precisely, is she supposed to be bunking with now?
Is she bunking with anyone?
There’s really only one way to find out.
I tap Nash on the shoulder.
“I’m going to do a little sleuthing.”